


Binding, Banishing, Benediction

by Nightmist



Series: Errata, Marginalia, Palimpsest [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bondage, Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pegging, Porn With Plot, Smut, in fic you can use perversity as therapy, kink yet soft, oops (thanks Microsoft Works!), tenderhearted kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: Nightmares can be a given for warriors, but when they start disrupting the ability to share a bed,  it's time to consider alternate solutions.A porny character study? Outtake? Look ahead? SOMETHING? from my longer series.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, referenced Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, referenced Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood/Warrior of Light
Series: Errata, Marginalia, Palimpsest [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666165
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	Binding, Banishing, Benediction

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly the fault of my damnable, contrarian brain, which seized onto the ear worm of pegging Aymeric when it came up in the Bookclub, dismissed it as something I could never write, and then promptly piped back up, "BUT WAIT, WHAT IF WITH PLOT AND SOFT?". And here we are, to my utter shock.
> 
> This is out of timeline, but presumptively canon for Living Hands, which is my long fic for my Warrior of Light, but as this is both out of order and... *waves hand* what it is, it seemed better to allow it to stand alone. Set somewhere vaguely after the Singularity Reactor, in the downtime I presume must have happened between that and the next patch.

Being woken by nightmares is normal now. Sometimes it is her own; bodies lying scattered like forgotten dolls in the Waking Sands, the bloody banquet in Ul'dah and a flight for freedom where everyone else leaves her, lances of light that are blocked all too briefly by shields before piercing flesh, primals consuming crystals and aether and wills, breaking bodies and selves… And again and again, Nidhogg hatching from Estinien's body and aether like a dark insect tearing open the shell of its egg. So she can't fault Aymeric when he too wakes in screams or whimpers, in soft tears or harsh gasps when he returns to the Vault's dungeons in his darker dreaming. It is an accepted trade, that whoever had the easier somnolence that night will soothe the other.

No, the problem is the nights when her beloved dreams of the Ward clasping him in fetters and manacles, of being bound and made helpless for what is to come after. She understands why it makes him lash out when the sheets have wrapped around his limbs, draws desperate thrashing in pursuit of freedom, but after the third night where she's awakened by being less shoved and more _thrown_ from the bed before the nightmare loses its grip, she resolves that she needs to find a solution. There must be a way to break Aymeric of his discomfort with even the most minimal restraints to his movement, or she's going to have to start layering the carpets three or four deep in his room.

If she is being strictly honest with herself -- and Kohanya _tries_ to be, after her promise, to question her own decisions to be sure they're not just made from fear -- the idea she develops is, at a minimum, deeply intimidating. Outside of her comfort zone. But much like the ghost that lingers in their lives, she is soft at the core, unable to deny Aymeric anything that might soothe that beautiful, bruised heart. 

Which necessitates shopping. After long consideration, she gives in to instinct and talks to the one person she's fairly sure will at least have a rumor of where to go, or worse, specific information: Emmanellain. In a kinder, better world, she could have trusted to Haurchefant, but absent that option, his little brother will have to do. The good news is that he does, indeed, know of a discreet "little boutique" she can shop at. The bad news is that in exchange, she has to take him with her on her shopping expedition. If his father _ever_ finds anything he good-naturedly bullied her into buying for him, _she will die and still never hear the end of it_. At least it was largely… artistic. Yes. That's a good word. She was _encouraging his artistic sensibilities._

The real challenge is that even after her planning is done and supplies secured, and she has everything tucked safely away… she still has to find a way to propose the idea without faceplanting like a Dhalmel in a field's worth of tripwires. Kohanya waits til after dinner on a night when the servants have cleared out, and they've moved into his office, with the fire banked high and the lord sprawled out across the couch like he's already half-intending to sleep there. She perches herself on the couch arm nearest to his head and tugs until he leans against her skirted legs. That achieved, the scholar gives in to the urge to coil locks of dark hair around her fingertips, toying with it as she works up the nerve to broach the subject. "Ah… So I had a thought about the more… physical nightmares, you've been having lately. That is, if you're willing to entertain a possible idea." In truth, she knows the demurement won't matter; even if he didn't want to hear, the unfailing politeness of Aymeric's nature would mean he would still encourage her to speak.

Certainly, it is no surprise when he makes a quiet sound of inquiry, head tilting back to rest in the hammock of fabric between her knees, Ishgard's commander blinking up at her through a haze of sooty lashes and raven dark locks. Kohanya is unable to repress a warm smile in response as she curls her body down, laying lips against his forehead in a gentle kiss. Even as she does so, he reaches one hand up, the back of broad fingers stroking along her cheek, catching very slightly sometimes where he has scars from combat. "And what was this thought that crossed your mind, beloved? While you are often hesitant to speak, you usually try not to show that you're avoiding doing so." 

She wrinkles her nose a little, a soft sigh breathed out through gently parted lips. "You read my words and face far too well, my brave knight. I am unsure how my notion will be received, although I will share all the same. I know we are both of the preference that nightmares should at least be of the variety where we can remain in the same bed together safely, if nought else… which means something needs to be done to keep you from panicking, awake or asleep, if you find your limbs bound." He makes a quiet sound of acknowledgement, eyes like the pale glow of stars on hoarfrost watching her own blood and wine, the pair of them curled together like a climbing vine on a trellis. She swallows, knowing her voice is soft, showing traces of shyness still. "You know as well as I do that the best way to learn to control your fears in battle is face them head on, when you are safe with comrades by your side."

As Kohanya speaks, the scholar loosens one hand from his hair, skimming fingertips over the flexed muscles of his lifted arm until she can curl the delicate bones of her hands around his wrist, clasp it tightly. There's no real restraint to it; she has gotten better at physical fighting, but in training and body size, she is a very long way from being Aymeric's match. That's no matter. This about the psychology of the situation, after all. Keeping the touch light and gentle, she strokes her thumb along the delicate inner skin where his pulse thunders a whisper's breadth away, where she can feel the raised pink and white lines that scar the knight's flesh below the concealing gloves he wears daily anywhere but at home in the quiet and safe hours of the day. The miqo'te woman's ears flick forward as she hears a slight uncertain hitch to her beloved's breathing, before he speaks. "Anya. You are asking that I give myself over into your hands utterly, instead of taking you in mine, and that I do so knowing you intend to bind and restrain me, make me helpless to your will." 

She purses her lips for a moment, thoughtful, still leaned forward so the dark strands of her hair fall to stand guard around his face like a twilight veil. "Both yes and no, shield of my heart. I ask that you _try_ something that might make both of us nervous, but might heal a little of you too, perhaps even a little of me." Her thumb continues to draw slow circles over his inner wrist, and in the corner of her gaze, Kohanya can see that the hairs on his arms are rising up in response. It sends a surprising jolt of excitement down her spine, along with a matching one of hope in her chest, sensing that at least _some_ tiny part of him is either intrigued or at least willing to try. 

There's a pause of agonizingly slow seconds, crawling by, then he gives a careful nod, voice betraying a hint of tightness despite his attempt at his usual confidently smooth cadence. "When?" A soft bubble of laughter comes to her lips, unbidden, and in apology for it and to cover for the flaming hue of scarlet that has painted over her cheeks below the sunburn, she turns her face, replacing her thumb with the lingering press of lips as she tastes Aymeric's skin, the subtle sweat and salt of him.

"Not tonight, my heart. Be at peace, I would rather we embark upon such a venture on an evening when you've had time to be comfortable with the idea. I can bear being tossed out of bed a few more times until then. If there's a day coming up when your workload looks, perhaps, miraculously lighter than usual…?" She trails off with a questioning lilt as she looks back to catch his gaze, Kohanya aware she's displaying her _open affection_ for him in a way that would once have had her scoffed at and teased. At the moment, though, that doesn't matter, and when Aymeric murmurs a soft acknowledgement, she finishes the conversation by wrapping herself around him enough that she can kiss her shield heart, deep and lingering, if upside down, and lose herself in the pure flood of him.

-#-#-#-#-

Various obligations and responsibilities in both of their lives leave the idea on a low simmer for a half-sennight. That is, until on a lightly snowy morning, Aymeric pauses a moment when pulling on his gloves in the middle of changing into his formal garb. Kohanya is still burrowed down into the covers of his bed, taking advantage of lingering warmth and the fact that she has at least a _little_ more time than he does before she has to be responsible. "Lucia has agreed to handle anything that comes up past sunset tonight, as well as to make certain to harangue me if necessary into actually leaving at that time." When she almost bolts upright out of the sheets, he laughs, silken soft. "I did not tell her the full reasoning, so you may desist in looking so perturbed. Still, she was more pleased than I expected at hearing I intended to enforce myself to take an evening at home to unwind. Do I truly overdo my dedication to work to such a great extent?"

She knows her long-suffering look is answer enough when he laughs again, grateful to see Aymeric depart in a positive mood for the day. She spends her own morning in a scramble to get every possible interruption she can imagine out of the way, then coaxing the staff to prepare a dinner that she can serve alone and to take off early as well. 

Thusly, by the time Aymeric arrives home (and miraculously, it _is_ not much past sunset, which she is sure can be laid at Lucia's hands, bless the Garlean woman's ability to keep everything in order and sense in existence), she is the only one at home, comfortable in a soft dress, the table laid out with a simple meal. The fire has been already built and safely banked in his room, things in order, and on the whole, well, more than anything, the miqo'te is grateful that she didn't have much time to pace and build up her nerves.

With dinner done, Kohanya seels the resolve deep within, wills adamantite into her spine and stands first, slipping around the table to offer Aymeric her hands to stand. It's a purely symbolic gesture, given the far from insignificant difference in their heights, but it's enough to shift the dynamic to make her seem the courtier. So she draws the Lord Speaker to his feet, intertwining her fingers with his, and gives her dark-locked lover a slow, warm smile. "Shall we adjourn, then?" Giving a little tug at his hands as she asks, the miqo'te is already in motion, guiding him to follow with small steps back towards the hallway, hearing the quiet sound of her gown's skirt brushing against her legs and the floor. 

At the staircase, she shifts her grip to a single hand, and as she half-turns, a warm frisson runs through her at the flash of Aymeric's face in profile as she leads him, besotted and beguiled and brutally, bewilderingly full of trust in her despite all of the things she sees as her failures. Ever and always, she can only try and be worthy of it, and of him. To offer what salve and scraps and salvation she can find to give, weak or worthy.

Tonight, that means pulling Aymeric to his bed, stretching onto her toes to put light pressure by putting hands flat on his shoulders to encourage him to sit on the edge. She means to speak first, but with him seated in front of her, evening out their heights, it's all too tempting to steal the chance instead of take the lead in a kiss, form a knot of her fingers into the silken strands at the nape of the knight's head and hold him tight as she closes her mouth over his. Despite temptation and habit and grip, this first touch is not wildly hungry, although she can feel the tracery of need around the edges of it, like a wolf stalking through the treeline. Instead, her lips stay closed for now, warm and soft, coaxing rather than demanding. And oh, it is, as always and ever, so terribly easy to drag him along with her, hungry for the purity of unadultered affection and adoration, the pure clarity of love given freely. 

Drawing back for a second to regain breath, Kohanya can hear the low rumble of approval in her own throat, a breathy, rasping sound before she kisses him again, deeper this time, darts tongue to test the soft part where their mouths joined. Meeting no reservation and only warm welcome, she dips in, chases the taste of him, tangles and gradually, deepeningly devours, pressing and withdrawing. By the time she finishes, her body is pressed close, standing between the spread of his legs, and they're both flushed across the cheeks, lips swollen and eyes dark and eager. Regretfully, she unwinds hands from his hair, takes a small step back, resists the urge to press and meld together without plan or intent beyond pure instinct.

"Shirt off." Husky voiced, the command sounds shockingly compelling in her own voice, a step further back to watch, eyes smoldering. Mystery and miracle, eyes of ice and falling stars meet her own, an indrawn breath hissed between lush lips, and he moves, _listens_ , the wide length of battle-scarred hands undoing buttons in a gradual progression, from collarbone down towards the belly. With each one undone, a little more gape of curtained fabric to reveal the broad planes of his torso, muscle under the slight softening of too much time spent at a desk, skin like polished bronze complete with the scarring where it was hammered too hard, the marks of a life fought hard for. When the cuffs are finally unfastened and the whole thing slipped off, revealing the scarring along arms and wrists, the wellspring of her motivation tonight, she reaches to take the garment from his hand, tossing it towards the hamper. "Nymeia's grace, love, but you still take my breath away every time I see you."

The quiet disbelief in his gaze is no longer a surprise, as bewildering as the idea was at first, but it still tugs at her. Turning away a moment, she pulls the first bundle from the dresser drawer, steps back closer, returning to nock herself in the bow of his spread thighs once more. Kohanya makes no attempt to hide what she has, moving with casual slowness, opportunity to read expression and body language as a length of dark cotton rope unspools from her hand. When she sees the harshly indrawn breath, the blush that creeps up along ears, the miqo'te leans to brush lips over the dark curls shadowed over Aymeric's forehead as she promises softly, "An attempt, beloved heart, nothing and no obligation to it. Ask me to stop, I will, ask to wait, I will." Unseen, she feels his hands settles to girdle her waist, trace along the inward curve of it, a slight tremor to them that fades as the lord re-acquaints himself with familiar form, with the firmament of her being. She waits, lets patience stretch her as boundless and calm as the snowy horizon, vast and peaceful. The vulnerability of this seems to have stolen so much of his words, usually so certain and easy to come to silver tongue and golden lips, and it requires all of her attention to read what goes unspoken.

Only when Aymeric moves to draw his hands away again, offer them to her, wrists together, does she move again, lips dragged down from forehead to graze over eyelids in a benediction, tracing the bridge of a strong nose, then she straightens herself, turns to her task. At first, it is truly no more than laying the line of rope across those proffered forearms, allowing him to feel the softness of it, not harsh or hard, chain or metal, but flowing cool and gentle as water. When a little of the tension eases, she murmurs softly, "I'm going to start wrapping it now. Keep your eyes on me, on here and now." At the slightly shaky nod of acceptance, she starts to wind the doubled over cord, drawing the Speaker's silent wrists together in a narrowing loop, space still left between. Before making any further move to finish off the tie, she pauses with the binding held that way, still no more than an encirclement kept in place only by the outward pressure of his holding steady to allow it. "How does that feel?"

"F-fine." Oh, that slight shakiness in his voice is definitely evident and all Kohanya has to do is incline one eyebrow in a gentle lift to draw out more of an explanation, the blush having moved out til it almost graces the tips of Aymeric's ears. "Mayhap fine is a slight misappellation, but it while it is not without a certain pull upon memory, the sensation is very different. Having-" He pauses, and gloriously, the blush does spread the rest of the way, red full across his features and she can not help but be utterly charmed. "I can make no denial that while passing strange to have it be your hands limiting mine, it is compelling despite the slight thrill of apprehension."

There is no ability in her to stop the bubbling laugh that spills from her lips, but she can tell he hears the affection and happiness in it, the scholar watching a shy, slightly sly smile pull at the knight's lips as she tucks and starts to wind once more, now around the column of rope between wrists, til she can fasten it off and it forms a pair of dark bound cuffs. Tucking a few fingers under the rope, checking that it's not too tight or too close, she keeps eyes on his Aymeric's face, and when the uncertainty seems to stay within the realm of exciting even with the binding done, she uses her grip on the ropework to pull him into her, draw lips to lips in a lingering kiss. "I think I could be convinced to be happy with the idea of you finding it compelling to be in my control for the moment, beloved heart." There's an answering brief rumble of laughter before she kisses him again, cutting the sound short by turning it into a quiet gasp.

With the lord bound, she takes her time with teasing him, dragging lips along the line of his jaw, tracing the shape of his ears, her nails tracing slow patterns on his shoulders and chest, whorling, intricate, and interlocking. Teeth then seek and settle over his windpipe, his pulse, closing in shortly scathing nips and drags, leaving little mark but a great deal of sensation, until she reaches the base and uses the suction of her mouth to _pull_ in demand, to leave the imprint of her lips against the notch between his collarbones like a tag. Dragging nails over his belly, then lower, she finds the hoped-for straining against the confines of his breeches, dragging harder over the fabric without touching on him directly before she hears a surprise interruption of voice, some confidence returning as comfort grows, even if husky and low. "'Anya. Don't _tease_ so much." 

Lifting an eyebrow again as she starts to unfasten those breeches, still touching with no more than the brief brushes of fingertips, Kohanya murmurs quietly, "Well, I _could_ stop teasing, take you in hand, and finish you… or… I could show you the rest of what I bought, if you're willing to be _patient_ a little." Playing on his curiosity is a gambit she knows she's likely to win, because the mere fact that Amyeric wanted _her_ and _Estinien_ in his bedchamber nightly instead of someone properly noble and Ishgardian was every proof that under his elegant mien, he invariably _burned_ in want of something more and wilder. 

Aymeric scowls, but it's fond nevertheless, then lets out a soft, long-suffering sigh. "You already know that I will not rest easily unless I find out what other things are going through your mind." The miqo'te's lips curl into a pleased smile, and she steps back, leaving his pants unfastened and loose enough that they are likely to fall down if he tries to stand up. Barring that, they leave the hard curve of him framed within the dark fabric, which is a very pretty and appealing sight, certainly. 

Bowing slightly, she starts to slip free of her gown, unlacing and pulling it overhead. She is bare beneath, but not for long, her motions slow and unhurried as she turns back to her stash, drawing forth a neat bundle of leather straps and the accompanying toy of heavy rubber. Kohanya has practiced wearing it when Aymeric is out and about work, because fastening it on was initially more complicated than she had thought it would be, and she's grateful to now be able to strap it around the widened curve of her hips, settle the toy into place to stand in firm jut, dark and slender with length, over her mons pubis. That had been the crux of an intense argument with Emmanelain at the shop; he believed very firmly that the only option was to go for the largest, most dramatic choice. _She_ had felt something that rested with a more natural grace against her form, much smaller than Elezen norm, would be more appropriate. In the end, given that it was _her_ money and she most certainly wasn't going to be using it _on_ Emmanelain, the final choice is closer to her own initial preferences, even if she still feels he talked her into going sizable enough that the result is impressively dramatic.

When she turns back to the bed, given Aymeric's intense indrawn hiss of breath, she guesses that effect is more than effective enough. The pale blue of his eyes has gone wide in surprise, but his lips are parted, tongue washing them, and his prick rises from his opened pants with as much demand as it did before she changed. "Halone's _tits_ , 'Anya, when did you acquire -- how did you ever even _think_ of acquiring -- I never thought--" It appears that she has thoroughly disrupted his chain of thought, which was admittedly the goal to begin with. Curling a hand around the spot where the rope holds his arms together, Kohanya tugs up, encouraging him to his feet, and when his pants fall, to step out of them.

"Ah, but even if you never thought, you don't object, do you?" Her voice is gentle, despite the mild demand of her actions, lips curled into an affectionate smile. When Aymeric gives a gentle shake of his head in admission, she lets out a soft, contented moan and taps the toes of one foot against his bare shins. "Kneel for me, my heart, and show me with those lovely lips how very little you object?" She phrases it as a request, even if she thinks she will not be denied. Sure enough, moving a little awkwardly with his hands bound, the Lord Speaker drops to his knees, then fully to sit upon his heels, placing him of a height where his eyes will be full of the insatiable demand of shaped rubber. 

The first touch of lips against the toy is hesitant, but she can see the eager curiosity in hooded eyes, and when she coos approval at even the slight touch, it drives Aymeric to be bold, take in more, til the mouth that speaks the words that guide so many is wrapped around the phallus, growing more and more comforted and familiar. If, perhaps, she can not enjoy them as others have, there is an unquestionable pleasure and joy in watching his head bob as her fingers find his ears, trace the edges and flick against the lobes as Aymeric's movements become fully eager. Kohanya expected this to be relatively easy for him to handle this way, but even if she isn't being touched directly, oh, by the light, it is an astonishing thing to see him pushing himself to take her simulacra into his throat, to get as close, give as much as possible, and all while he remains bound, not thought left on the fear of the rope and all of it on her. There is a surprising intoxication to it and perhaps for the first time, she understands what draws him to this role normally. 

And for that, for the heady pleasure of him servicing her, for the sweetness of the relaxation at seeing his trust, she lets it go on longer than she meant to at first, finally letting out a shaky groan before she pulls her hips back, drawing the faux phallus from the tight clasp of his lips. The disappointed noise that echoes from his throat at losing it cuts to the shuddering heat at her core and ignites it all the hotter, never mind that she has had no true touch on her own flesh. Breathing rather shakily, she strokes fingertips along the curve of Aymeric's cheek, strokes the softness beneath his jawline, runs her thumb over the softly swollen jut of his lower lip from where he's bruised himself sucking her off. Their color deepened with arousal and need, his eyes rise to her face in anticipation, half-shadowed by soot-dark lashes. "You are beautiful like this. You're always beautiful, but, oh, I do want to see you lie back, relax, and let me take you, wring you dry with my love. May I?"

He's quicker to nod than she'd expected -- maybe, just maybe, today she's not the only one for whom the stress of daily life has found its moment of peace in giving up control? -- but she waits patiently until he realizes that it's going to take clear words for her to proceed. His tongue flicks out against her thumb and even now, she blushes just a little, hand shifting aside. "You may, beloved." With the clear consent obtained, she carefully helps him rise back to his feet, noting Aymeric's legs are a little shaky, and guides him back to the bed.

"A moment; make yourself comfortable, hmmm?" In all honesty, Kohanya could stand to watch the knight's body, still bound at the wrists, squirming around with unusual inelegance on the bed to get comfortably settled against the pillows for hours, if she had to. Or could. Quickly, she sits on the edge of the mattress, retrieves a familiar glass vial of oil from the nightstand before turning back to her lover. Even now, he's prone to sprawl on the bed if he rolls onto his back -- she's gotten very good at nudging him in his sleep til he rolls, because otherwise, the only option is to sleep half on him -- shoulders buried against the pillows, legs gaped, one pulled slightly up. She smiles dotingly, aware that appreciation is no doubt shining on her face like the sun, especially when he blushes in response to the frank gaze. Crawling up to tuck herself between those muscled thighs, the miqo'te teases nails along the inside of one leg, watches them spread further, hips rising in response. "You are always so responsive, no matter what role you take, my dear. It's charming." 

As she speaks, she glides slim fingers up, wraps them around the thick and eager width of him, strokes from root to tip, hand gliding easily even with the oil not opened yet. Responsive is indeed the right term for it, a low, resonant groan wrung from him as his hips buck against the bed again, more little jolts with every steady tug of her hand. She allows herself a few, thumb idly tracing circles in the pre beaded on the crown of him. Then the scholar moves her focus to the firmament of his desire, tugs lightly at the delicate black curls that cover his testes. As she does so, she uses her teeth to pull the cork from the small bottle, and drawing her hand back, coats her fingers generously before dipping them back between Aymeric's legs, and under, as she uses her unoiled hand to guide one leg up to hook over her shoulder. After that, it's easy to find what she seeks, circle fingertips around his opening, then slip one within. 

Kohanya wants to kiss him, but for now, she settles for turning her head to rain kisses along the inside of the leg holding her to him, listens to him whimpering softly, then as she presses in with two fingers, curls them up in seeking, and _finds_ that spot, groaning loudly, his hips twisting hard to try and encourage more. So she does, adding again, crooking and moving in a slow pump, til she sees him bite down hard on his lower lip, trying to muffle another eager groan and to keep a little control. Slowly, she withdraws, eyes the soft opening left by her preparations consideringly, then pours more oil, using it to generously slicken the ever-ready length of her strap-on, pushing his leg a little higher as she aligns herself.

Finding the right way to angle and press her hips forward takes a moment of careful study, her brow creased in focus, and Aymeric's head tossed back and mouth hanging open in a shaky pant for air the entire time. When she finds it, and watches the phallus press in, it's a thrill of triumph at how he _moans_ for her, beyond words, every slow ilm further as she settles making lashes flutter against his cheeks. Gradually, she settles fully, and when the straps are pressed flat to her pelvis, when she's bottomed out against him, Kohanya finally curls herself down, arching her belly over the just of his bound hands, and tangles a hand into his hair to hold him close as she demands the right to kiss him, to drink down the taste of him as he has so often done of her. His lips are sweet and warm on hers, and if there is hunger, without question, there is even more of love and trust, the two spiraling together like a pair of hawks as she starts to slowly learn to move, to draw and rock her hips, to push _in_ and _up_ just so, grind against the spot that makes his cock leak where her belly rubs against it, makes it jerk and twitch needily. 

She twines her hand between their bodies to grip him again with still slippery fingers, fisting around his shaft demandingly, trying to move her hand in pace with her hips as she keeps driving into the tight clench of him, as much as she can. It's dizzying, strange, the thrill so very like and so very _un_ like servicing him with her mouth, the heady exhilaration of seeing someone in the throes of pleasure from what she does for them while she aches with her own unfulfilled desire, but here paired with heady, unfamiliar power. There is virtually _nothing_ in that moment she can think of that she wants more than to see Aymeric come to climax by her hands and hips, see him helpless but safe, treasured, loved, adored, and _oh_ , but she tries to pour all of that into her lips. Kohanya kisses him like she's going to breathe him in, subsist on the taste of him on her lips, grinding her hips against his haunches as she bottoms out and her fingers tighten, drag demandingly, and she thrills to _feel_ the moment it's enough, when he cries out in quiet raggedness into her mouth, pushing back against her as seed pumps out over her hand, smear across their bellies where they are pressed together, leaving them sticky and slick and sweating. She can't bear to pull away until she is sure he's fully spent, until that proud stiffness starts to gently soften against the curl of fingers, and tenderly, slowly, she pulls away, wipes her hand clean against her hip, carefully draws the toy out from where she's been sheathed within him.

Aymeric's head is against the pillows, head half-turned now as he breathes heavily in afterglow, hair a messy shadowed halo, his eyes half-closed and shielded but seemingly content, swollen lips lightly parted. It's beautiful in a way that strikes like a needle through the heart, vulnerable and accepting and divinely _hers_. When she finds her voice, it's soft, full of almost impossible adoration. "Will you be comfortable long enough for me to retrieve a cloth to clean you, or would you rather I unbind your hands first, love?" Truthfully, there's no surprise when he doesn't manage words, but a sated smile and a gentle wave of the fingers of one hand towards the washroom. Kohanya smiles back, pausing as she slides off the bed to press a quick kiss to her knight's forehead, then she departs briefly for the matter of cleanliness.

When she returns, now in nothing but her own skin and bearing a damp cloth, she uses it to wipe him clean before unpicking the knot of the rope with deft fingers, unwinding it quickly. When it falls loose, she wraps it gently back into a loop and sets it aside, the scholar gently examining each of Aymeric's wrists to be sure that they bear no new marks or signs of strain. From the indulgent way he's smiling at her worry, she is fairly sure they will not before she finishes, and sure enough, nothing mars the skin that was not there before, and after kissing each one, she settles herself down carefully to lie at his side. She _is_ surprised when he immediately rolls to gather her close in his freed arms, face nuzzling down against her ears and hair as she's held. Kohanya laughs, asking quietly, "So the worst part was not being able to touch me, is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes. That was a lovely experience, but nightmares aside, I think I prefer being able to show my feelings in return more physically, as a general rule." Aymeric's voice is surprisingly thoughtful, a slight roughness in it from the aftermath of too many sounds made recently, and her answering murmur of assent seems to please him as she nestles closer, yawning softly.

"That's alright, in general, I prefer you doing the work… being the one doing all that moving is _tiring_. Enjoyable, but… I think I'd rather just lay here lazily and let you work most days. Still, if it helps and we need a repeat treatment, I suppose I’ll manage to motivate myself, somehow." Kohanya smiles at the low rumble of laugh that shakes Aymeric's body, and she presses a brief kiss to the bruise between his collarbones as she melts in closer, fully intending to doze off in his arms.

Even better, she gets to _stay_ there all night, as either luck or fate or success keeps the nightmare they sought to vanquish at bay, at least for now. All in all, a _very_ effective experiment.


End file.
